


Needs Must

by blodeuweddbach



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - British, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Alternate Universe - Historical, Eventual Smut, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-04 06:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14014509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blodeuweddbach/pseuds/blodeuweddbach
Summary: It's the early 20th century in London. Sansa Stark's parents and eldest brother are dead, and she and her siblings are left without an inheritance. To make ends meet, they decide to take in a lodger.Sandor Clegane is looking for a place to live. The Stark house has a good room, regular meals, and even a maid to clean after him. Living there will come at a price however; spy on his hosts, or sign his own death warrant.An Edwardian AU, with lots of deviations from canon events. More pairings to be announced.





	1. Prologue (Ned)

**March, 1902**

The wind whipped at Ned’s face as he walked down the narrow street. It brought the stench of sulphur with it, catching in his throat. Above the rows of squat houses ahead, the steelworks rose up like a sleeping metal beast, a yellowish haze of smoke belching from its towers into the overcast sky. How anyone could live here was beyond Ned; he thought longingly of the clean northern air of Winterfell as he peered down at the scrap of paper in his hand.

He was on the right street, one among hundreds in the rabbit warren of a town that had built up around the docks of Port Talbot to house its workers. Ned studied the numbers beside each door along the terraces. _43… 45…_ He wanted number 57, according to Jon Arryn’s letter. Ned hoped that the man he wished to see was home. He’d taken the earliest train from Paddington station that very morning, and he did not want to stay much longer. He’d told his daughters he would be away on business, but he didn’t like to leave them alone in the house for too long. _Gods know they’ll only bicker until I get back._

The house he was searching for finally came into view. It was nearly identical to every other house he’d passed along the way; terraced, faced with brown stone bricks, with a newly-painted door and three long windows facing the road. The ground-floor window had a sign in the corner. _‘Room to let. No cats, no dogs, no Irish.’_

Frowning at that, Ned rapped his knuckles against the door. There was no point in wasting time. He wanted to catch the earliest train back to London, and that would take him several hours at the least. First, though, he needed answers.

The door swung open after a few seconds to reveal a short, portly woman wearing an apron and a deep frown.

“Yes?” She asked, her eyes flickering over his face suspiciously. 

“Is Gendry Waters in, madam?”

The landlady seemed taken aback by his sudden question, but she soon recovered herself, her mouth now thinning into a straight line as she regarded him.

“He is. Who’s asking for him?”

“Ned Stark,” Ned replied. “I sent a letter saying I’d be visiting today. I’m… a friend of his mother’s.”

It was a lie. Ned hated lying, but he didn’t want to say too much to the boy’s landlady about such a private matter. The woman looked at him with that same suspicious glance, no doubt wondering what constituted a ‘friend’ of Gendry Waters’ mother, but she stood back to let him enter nonetheless. 

The hallway was narrow and fastidiously clean. The landlady led him up the stairs, talking as she went.

“You know, you’re the second friend of his mother’s to come and see him recently,” she said, more to herself than to Ned. She turned to look at him when they reached the tiny landing. “What’s the matter with her? Is she ill?”

“She’s dead,” Ned told her quietly, hoping that would end any more interrogations. It worked, and the woman muttered something like ‘that explains it’ before she knocked on the first door on their left.

“Mr Waters, there’s a gentleman here to see you.”

There were a few moments of silence following the landlady’s announcement. Ned wondered suddenly if Gendry had changed his mind about meeting him; in his responding letter he’d seemed a little confused, but happy to speak with Ned about his meeting with the late Jon Arryn. 

They didn’t have to wait long, though, before the door opened, and Ned’s fears were put to rest. The young man who stood in the doorway nearly made him start. He was strong-looking, with short black hair and a well-defined jaw. Looking at Gendry Waters was like looking at a ghost, the ghost of Robert Baratheon in his youth. If Robert had been a labourer in a steel works, of course.

“Mr Stark,” Gendry said by way of greeting, holding out his hand. Ned shook it, relieved as the boy looked over his shoulder at the landlady who still hovered behind him. “Thank you, Mrs Jones,” Gendry said, firmly enough that the frowning woman took her cue and headed back downstairs, throwing them a scowl before she disappeared from view.

“You know why I’m here,” Ned said quietly, still taken aback slightly by the similarities he could see between Gendry and his late friend. “Are you still alright to talk with me about it?”

“Of course,” Gendry answered, with a firm nod of his head. “Yes. Poor man. He seemed… nice. Trustworthy. I’ll tell you everything we talked about.”

Jon Arryn had been all of those things, Ned thought sadly. He admired the boy his willingness to help a stranger for the sake of an old man he’d met only once. It spoke of a good character, something that felt refreshing in the middle of the mess Jon’s death had left scattered in its wake. Ned had been wading through a nest of vipers ever since, and he felt the net beginning to close around the answers he needed to make sense of it all.

“Please come in,” Gendry said, and Ned followed him into the small room, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Night had fallen by the time Ned returned to London. The journey had seemed to take no time at all; his head had been swirling with all that Gendry had told him. Jon Arryn had come to see him a few months before, as Ned had surmised from the old man’s letters. Jon had always been organised, something he’d tried to instil in Ned and Robert in their youth. It had seemed strange, on searching his office after his death, that Ned had come upon a letter from Gendry confirming the time of their meeting, slipped down between a potted plant and the wall. 

Now, though, Ned began to suspect it hadn’t been strange at all. Jon Arryn had wanted to keep his meeting with Gendry Waters a secret. Ned now understood why, and it made his head ache acutely as he left Paddington station, deeply engrossed in his own thoughts. There were three letters in his coat pocket that he had penned on the train. One was addressed to Stannis Baratheon, one to his wife, and the third to Cersei Lannister. They would need sealing, but he had every intention of sending them off first thing in the morning. Until then, he needed to think of what his next move would be. It was a dangerous game he found himself playing, and Ned didn’t plan on underestimating his opponents in the slightest.

Robert and Jon Arryn had underestimated the dangers of the game, Ned knew, and Robert and Jon were dead.

It was for that reason that Ned decided against walking through Hyde Park on his way home to Kensington. There was no telling how much the Spider already knew of his journey to south Wales, and Ned didn’t intend to become a moving target for anyone lurking amid the trees. Instead, he headed for Praed Street, intending to hail a cab to take him back to Victoria Road as quickly as possible.

Something flickered in the corner of Ned’s vision, and he turned to see a shadowy figure standing beneath an alcove in the building on his right. 

There was only time for his blood to run cold as Ned saw the man lift something up in his hand, pointing it toward him. _A pistol,_ he thought vaguely, as though his consciousness were far away. He could run, but there was nowhere to hide on the long stretch of road that sprawled before the station. His leg still hurt. He could not get far.

Ned’s thoughts turned to Catelyn, to the sons he had left with her in Winterfell, and the daughters not far away from him now. They were likely asleep, and he hoped their dreams were peaceful. His heart ached suddenly for what they would wake to…

A noise echoed through the night, making the few pedestrians on the street scream. Ned Stark crumpled to the pavement, his world fading to black, and heard nothing more.


	2. Chapter One- Sansa/Sandor

**May, 1904**

**Sansa**

Sansa was in the sitting room, stitching her initials onto a handkerchief, when the maid came in.

“Miss Sansa,” Mary said, slightly breathless, “there’s a gentleman at the door asking about the room. He says he’s a clerk, and that he can pay his rent weekly.”

Sansa put her handkerchief down on the low tea table, rising out of her seat. It was early in the morning- not even nine o’clock, if the carriage clock on the mantelpiece was correct- and she found herself surprised by the man’s punctuality. The spare room she had advertised for a potential lodger had only appeared in the newspapers the previous evening. 

“Thank you, Mary. Send him in.”

The maid hurried back out to the hall, and Sansa smoothed her hands over her skirt absently as she waited. It was foolish, she knew, but having to act as the lady of the house made her more nervous than she cared to admit. It was her mother’s job, she wanted to say to no one in particular, but her mother was dead. She felt like a poor imitation as she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror above the mantel. Her coppery hair had been tied back in an intricate bun on the top of her head, her face framed delicately by the high collar of her dress. She looked pretty enough, Sansa supposed, but she didn’t care about being pretty in that moment. She wanted to seem capable, sensible, as though welcoming a stranger into her home was nothing she couldn’t handle.

She was caught off-guard when Mary returned, the stranger following in her wake. Sansa turned to greet him, but found herself rendered mute. The man was enormous, the top of his head nearly scraping the door frame as he entered the sitting-room, and muscled like a bull beneath the jacket he wore. What truly shocked Sansa, however, was when he turned his face to look directly at her, and she saw the burns that marred one side. Pink, raw-looking flesh coiled in thick ropes on the left side, his ear nothing but a gaping hole, and it was all Sansa could do not to gasp in horror as the man looked at her. _You are being unladylike,_ Sansa’s mind hissed, and she managed to look the man in the eyes. He was glaring at her, she realised with a pang of nervousness. 

“Good morning,” she said, her voice sounding weak in her own ears. The enormous man laughed, the sound soft yet laced with bitterness. 

“My name is Sandor Clegane,” he replied, without any preamble. Sansa might have been offended, had she not just been staring open-mouthed at his injured face. “I’m here about the room you advertised in the Standard.” 

Sansa sent a prayer of thanks for the opportunity to do something other than stare at him in awkward silence. “Yes, the room.” She brushed her hands over her skirt again, though it was spotless. “If you’d like to see it, please, follow me.” 

It occurred to Sansa, as the man named Sandor Clegane moved from the doorway to let her pass, that she hadn’t introduced herself. Her face heated at her lack of propriety, Sansa turned to him. 

“My name is Sansa Stark,” she said, offering him a small smile which he did not return. He was looking at her as though waiting for their meeting to be over. _He will likely not want the room after such a welcome,_ Sansa thought, guilt pooling in her stomach. The man had only wanted a place to sleep, and she had so far offered him nothing but shocked stares and awkward greetings. If she were in his position, she would not have stayed a moment longer. 

However, when she began to ascend the stairs, wondering if he would follow, he walked behind her with a purpose that took her aback yet again. _Is he being polite?_ Sansa wondered. If his greeting of earlier were any indication, he probably didn’t think much of being polite to her now, so she thought not. 

Sansa exchanged a glance with Mary who stood hovering in the hallway, eager for her to accompany them. Mary, for all her good qualities, was not the most perceptive. Misunderstanding Sansa’s look, she disappeared further down the hallway with a nod of her head, making for the basement where the kitchen lay. Frustrated, but unable to call her back without being even ruder to Mr Clegane, she continued alone up the stairs with the scarred man in her wake. 

The first floor landing was quiet, which Sansa was thankful for. She had told Arya and Rickon to be quiet should anyone arrive to inquire about the room, and it seemed they had kept their promise. _That, or the two of them have snuck out of the house again without my noticing._ Sansa wouldn’t put it past her siblings, but she ignored that possibility for now, instead making for the second floor where the spare room was. 

“The room is a good size, I think,” Sansa began as she went up the stairs, not daring to look back at the man following her. “It faces out on the road. Our dining room and sitting room are on the ground floor, the kitchen and pantry in the basement, and our servants sleep in the attic.” 

The man rasped another low laugh at that, which confused Sansa, but he said nothing. They soon reached the second floor landing, where two doors led off from the hall and another flight of stairs disappeared above them. Sansa led Mr Clegane to the rightmost door, hoping that Mary had remembered to unlock it that morning. 

Thankfully, the handle turned, and Sansa walked into the bedroom a few steps, moving to the side that the man might see. He waited on the other side of the doorway, his eyes sweeping over the room in a cursory glance. Sansa felt terribly awkward. It seemed clear he had no wish to take the room now, and was only looking at it for… curiosity, perhaps? She didn’t know, but it brought a shamefaced blush to her cheeks nonetheless. 

The room was well-proportioned, as she’d said, but looking around it now Sansa wondered whether it would accommodate a man of his great size. The bed looked far too small; his feet would likely hang off the edge if he were to lay in it. _And now I’m thinking of him being in bed._ Her face warmed even further, and she cursed the fair skin that was no doubt betraying her embarrassment clearly. 

“Looks good enough,” Mr Clegane rasped, and it took Sansa a few seconds to realise what he was saying. 

“Are… are you sure?” She asked, unsure whether she was misunderstanding. Why would he like this room? The bed was clearly too small, and as for her behaviour toward him… It was beyond Sansa what he might be trying to do, and it made her stomach tighten with nerves. 

“What’s there to be sure about?” He asked, a little sharply. He was frowning at her from the hallway. “It has a bed to sleep in, and a wardrobe for clothes. That’s all I need in a room, and this one happens to be close to where I work. The rent’s no issue for me, either, as I’ve a good enough job as a clerk at a law firm. As far as I’m concerned, this room is a perfect fit, unless you have some issue with me living here.” 

He said the last sentence so bluntly that Sansa visibly started. Guilt roiled in her stomach again. 

“No!” She protested, a little too loudly to be convincing. “That’s not… I would be more than happy for you to have the room, provided you can pay the fees weekly, and are not against living with children under the same roof.” 

Something in his eyes flickered at that. They were grey, Sansa realised, like her father’s had been. Her heart ached at the thought. 

“You have children?” He asked, sounding surprised, and Sansa understood what she had sounded like. She was young, only just eighteen, and unmarried at that. 

“Oh no, I meant my brothers.” _Perhaps I’ll be able to explain one thing correctly today_ , Sansa wished ruefully. “They live downstairs. They are not usually any trouble, but I know some people object to the idea.” 

The man scoffed at that. “Is there anyone else living in this house, or will I have to wait and be surprised when they turn up?” 

“Four, as I said in the advertisement, not including the three servants. Myself, my brothers and my sister.” Sansa felt a little defensive now; she may have been offering the room, but it _was_ her house, and she was doing the best she could. It was nowhere near as nice as the old house on Victoria Road, she knew, but she and Arya could no longer stand to live there after their father’s death. _That, and we could no longer afford it._

They could barely afford to keep their current house, either, with their parents and Robb gone. Hence why they needed a lodger to make ends meet, until the chaos surrounding the wills had been cleared up. 

The man nodded once. “I can live with that. What about meals?” 

_He progresses quickly,_ Sansa thought, trying to keep up with his train of thought. “Cook prepares breakfast at eight, luncheon at midday, and dinner at six o’clock. You are more than welcome to join us for mealtimes, though you are also welcome to dine elsewhere if you so wish.” 

“Here is fine,” Mr Clegane answered, and Sansa fell silent at the affirmation. It appeared she’d found herself a lodger, and less than twenty-four hours after her advertisement had been published. What was more, he seemed respectable enough, if a little intimidating. 

“You said you work in a law office?” Sansa asked, her mind whirring with questions. None of them were polite, however, so she decided to query about his career instead. 

“Yes. Trant, Blount and Oakheart. I have a reference if you need it.” Mr Clegane pulled a piece of paper from the inside of his jacket and handed it to her. Sansa scanned its contents absently. It all seemed above board, written on company-branded paper, and signed by one of the managers no less. It was as good a recommendation as she could have hoped for. She had run out of excuses to refuse him. 

She offered him another smile, though it was an uncertain one. “Very well, Mr Clegane. If you are happy with the room, and the arrangements of the house, then we would be happy to have you stay with us.” 

He merely nodded once. _That’s decided, then,_ Sansa thought, feeling lost at sea. 

“I wrote up an agreement last night, so if you’ll follow me back to the sitting room, you can sign it and begin your tenancy.” 

She left the room with what she hoped was an air of certainty, trying to hide her nerves as she made her way back downstairs, Mr Clegane following closely behind. Even out of sight he was an intimidating presence, and she could feel him staring at the back of her head as they descended. _He probably hates me,_ Sansa concluded fretfully. _What an excellent way to begin with our new lodger._ Still, she supposed he was happy to pay his rent weekly, and didn’t seem particularly troublesome. He seemed the sort of man who would keep himself to himself, which suited Sansa perfectly. She had not wanted a lodger, but needs must, and she was thankful that it hadn’t taken too long. There were bills to pay, after all. 

When they reached the sitting room, Sansa moved over to the dresser where they kept the remains of their mother’s china on display. She opened one of the drawers, pulling out the sheet of paper on which she’d had Bran write the tenancy agreement and a pen, and handing both to Mr Clegane. His grey eyes scanned the paper diligently, and he scribbled his name on the line provided. 

“I’ll go to get my things,” he told her as he handed back the form. “It might take a few hours.” 

“Oh.” Sansa wasn’t sure why he was telling her that, but she tried to keep her tone light. He was, after all, living in her house now. The thought felt strange. 

Mr Clegane was looking at her as though she were simple. “I’ll need a set of keys, if I’m to be living here.” 

_Perhaps I am simple_ , Sansa thought ruefully. How could she have forgotten that? 

“Of course, please excuse me. We had some cut the other day.” She walked back to the dresser, opened another drawer, and pulled out a set of keys hidden beneath the papers within. “The silver one is for the front door, and the brass is for your room.” 

The man took the keys from her with another terse nod, and Sansa felt incessantly stupid as she stood there looking at him. He was watching her, she realised, with no small amount of attention, as though he wished to say something. 

“I’ll go, then,” he said finally, turning on his heel and walking out of the sitting room with a speed that seemed out of place in such a large man. Before she could say anything else, Sansa heard the front door close behind him. It was a few moments before Mary peered round the door frame at her. 

“Did he like the room, Miss Sansa?” 

Sansa nodded, more to herself than to Mary. “He did. He’s signed the form, I’ll take it upstairs to my room for safekeeping.” She looked down at the untidy scrawl of his signature, feeling suddenly exhausted. Pretending to know what she was doing had taken its toll, apparently. 

“Oh, that’s good news!” Mary said, with an uncertain smile. “He seems a quiet one, Miss Sansa, which is for the best. I daresay we won’t have much trouble from him.” 

Sansa thought of what her siblings would think of their new lodger. They needed the extra income, so she supposed they would be pleased. 

Why, then, did she feel so uncertain? 

“I hope you’re right, Mary.” 

* * *

**Sandor**

Standing on the street corner, Sandor took a deep breath of air. It was a relief to be out of that damned house. The whole place had made him feel uncomfortable; spotlessly clean, tastefully decorated, with servants to boot. All it did was make him more aware of how much he didn’t belong there. 

Then there had been the girl. The moment he’d stepped into the sitting room and saw her standing there, he’d wanted to turn tail and run from the place. In his whole sorry life, he’d never seen anything quite so beautiful as Sansa Stark. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, slight and fine-boned, with bright blue eyes that made him feel he was drowning. 

What a farce, then, that those eyes had filled with horror the moment they took in his face. Sandor was used to it by now, but it stung more than he cared to admit for such a pretty girl to look at him like he was some sort of monster. _There are worse men than me out there, girl,_ he’d wanted to tell her. She wouldn’t have understood. From what he could tell from her chirping, she knew next to nothing about letting rooms, had likely never had to think about making ends meet in such a way in her life. The other houses nearby that opened rooms for lodging weren’t even half the size of the Stark house, a handsome four-storey property on Doughty Street, and not one of them had three servants. It was a strange situation, he thought, to be able to keep the help but having to rent out a room to do so. 

But then, from what he knew of the Starks, their situation was as far from normal as he could imagine. 

His employer had told him the whole sorry story of the Starks of Winterfell. The father had gotten himself shot by some lunatic a few years before, and the mother and eldest boy had been killed in a revenge attack for some botched engagement with one of the many Frey daughters. _Then_ it turned out the eldest son had eloped with a girl prior to his death, and so the Winterfell estate- an old house in the middle of the Cumbrian hills, or, as Sandor put it, the arse end of nowhere- had passed to the new wife. A wife who had, conveniently, gone missing around the time of her husband’s death, leaving the remaining children to fend for themselves with whatever money their mother had left them. 

It was a right bloody mess, and it reeked of foul play from one end to the other. But Sandor hadn’t been paid to ponder the deaths of the Stark parents, or the fate of their children. He’d done what had been asked of him the previous evening. He’d successfully rented out the room in the Stark house, and that was all that mattered. As much as he hated liars, and everything to do with hiding the truth, he would spend the next few months relaying as much information as he could get from the family back to his employer. He owed them a favour, after all. 

If the rest of them chirped as mindlessly as the Miss Sansa, however, Sandor reckoned it would be easy enough to get what he needed to know. His mind wandered irresistibly back to her face, that pretty, frightened face that seemed burned into his memory somehow. _Fuck’s sake._ He needed a woman, he thought restlessly, pushing away from the railing he’d been leaning against with a huff of frustration. 

He wasn’t used to standing around like this, lying through his teeth to get thrown scraps from his master’s table. He hated it with every fibre of his being. He could almost feel the letter of recommendation he’d shown Sansa Stark burning through his coat pocket. It had been forged at nine o’clock the previous night, and Trant, Blount and Oakheart had laughed at the idea of their names being used as a cover for some solicitor’s office. Sandor envisioned punching them all square in the teeth. _You’re no better, dog,_ he reminded himself ruefully as he made his way down the street, in the general direction of his employer’s home. _But needs must._

His mind wandered again, frustratingly, back to the house on Doughty Street. The room was fine enough, he reasoned, even if he was only going to live there for a few months as he was needed for the job. Bed was small, but he would manage. It wasn’t as though he’d be bringing anyone back to it, anyway. He laughed aloud at the thought, the sudden bark startling a prim old woman walking past him. _The look on Miss Sansa’s face if I brought a whore to her house._ Part of him ached to do it, just to watch her rehearsed composure slip. 

While he thought on Sansa Stark, his feet had taken him to an office building off the Strand. The foot traffic was much heavier here, carriages racing to and fro in the centre of the broad street, and Sandor felt his lip twitch as he regarded it all. He hated London. It was teeming, full of people to stop in the street and gawk at his face as though he were in a circus. It was always loud, always smelly. He longed for the day he’d get enough money to flee the place for good. He’d go to the Continent, maybe. He hadn’t been bad at French in school; maybe he’d settle down in some quiet village in the Loire and drink himself to an early grave in peace. 

For now, though, he looked up at the red-brick building that had become his centre of operations. Sandor tried to ignore the twist of guilt that gnawed at his belly as he walked inside, thinking of the pretty girl with auburn hair who knew nothing of the world and its liars. _It’s a means to an end._ That was all it was, he told himself, forcing his mind to return to his cottage in France and the sour red wine he would drink there. 

It was that thought that kept him moving, forcing himself up the stairs to the fourth floor. It was what stopped him from hesitating as he pushed open the door that read _Tywin Lannister & Sons_, and walked in to meet with his masters. He was but a Hound, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: in case it wasn't obvious, I'm not G.R.R.Martin, and I own nothing.
> 
> Second disclaimer: The inheritance laws briefly mentioned here are what I could glean from modern British inheritance laws, and some of my own imagination; I hope no one is too offended by my lack of legal expertise as far as this story is concerned. My theorising goes like this: if a person dies without writing a will in the UK, their property can be inherited either by their children, their spouse, or by a close relative (sibling or parent). As Ned died before Robb, the Winterfell estate would have passed to him as the eldest, but Robb died without writing a will after eloping with Jeyne Westerling (Robb, you irresponsible man!). Being childless, most of Robb's property would pass to Jeyne, but she has disappeared, complicating matters for the remaining Starks as to the inheritance they are owed. I imagine they would have inherited a substantial amount of money from Catelyn, but four young people living in central London with no other source of income would not be able to hold onto that money for very long, hence Sansa's decision to use the spare room for a lodger to help make ends meet until their inheritance dispute is sorted.
> 
> Obviously much of this is pure conjecture on my part, but I hope it's acceptable for what it is (the product of a tired and fanfiction-obsessed mind) rather than an essay on inheritance law. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts below! Thank you :)


	3. Chapter Two- Arya

**Arya**

“Arya, you’re not coming down to dinner looking like that.” 

Sansa stood beside the closed door of Arya’s room, her arms folded over her chest. Their mother used to use that same stance, Arya remembered numbly, as she threw her sister a glare over the newspaper in her hands. She’d taken to reading them daily after her father had died, waiting for a front page news story, anything that mentioned Ned Stark’s murder. Those hopes had long since died, but the habit of purchasing the paper each morning was harder to shake off. 

“I doubt the lodger cares what I look like,” Arya told her sister bluntly, eyes returning to the page she’d been scanning. There was little of interest, but she liked to read each story carefully in case she missed something. She’d been more vigilant since her parents’ death, which was more than could be said for Sansa. Arya had left the house for four hours that morning without anyone noticing. She’d only wandered around the city, the same as she always did, watching the people going past her. None of the people she had come across had seemed to notice she was a girl, either, not batting an eyelid at the brown trousers, plaid waistcoat and calf-height boots she wore as she’d walked along the Thames. 

Though she was making a fuss about Arya’s attire, Sansa had made no comment about her earlier disappearance. Arya wasn’t sure if she hadn’t noticed, or if she simply knew it was a battle she’d never win. For all her efforts to mould herself into their mother, efforts Arya knew came from a good place, she had no intentions of letting Sansa think she could dictate her every action. 

“We ought to make a good impression,” her sister continued, as though Arya hadn’t interrupted. The younger girl glanced over at Sansa. Her hair was done up all prettily, the way Arya had noticed other girls wearing their hair around town, and she wore a dress of light blue lace, with beads shimmering around the modest neckline. _She takes her own advice, at least,_ Arya thought, knowing nothing she could do would make her look anywhere near as nice as her sister did. That used to upset Arya, secretly, when she’d been younger. It didn’t matter to her anymore though. There were better things to think about, in her good opinion. 

They still had no real answers about their parents’ and brother’s deaths, and Sansa was fretting about dresses to please their new lodger. 

Arya folded up her newspaper and set it down on her bed. “If he’s going to be living here, he should see how we really are.” She met her sister’s eye. “I’m not going to pretty myself up just to make him think our situation is normal.” 

Something flickered in Sansa’s eyes at that, something that looked a little like hurt, and Arya felt a tiny stab of guilt. _She’s doing her best,_ her mind told her, in a voice that sounded a lot like their father’s. 

But then Sansa schooled her expression into one of nonchalance, the way she had for two whole years, as though her siblings’ every word rolled off her back like water. “Suit yourself. But at least clean your face, you look like a chimney sweep.” 

She was gone from Arya’s room in a flash of auburn hair and a swish of skirts, and Arya watched the place where she had been with a strange feeling of numbness. They had never gotten along, she and Sansa, but somehow the distance grief had rendered between them felt even worse than the anger Arya used to feel at her little comments, at her nitpicking insistence on prettiness and perfection. 

Shaking herself from her thoughts, Arya walked over to the dresser beside the window, peering into the small mirror hung on the wall above it. Sure enough, she did have a smudge of dirt across her nose, from where she didn’t know. Cursing under her breath, she rubbed at it with the sleeve of her shirt, feeling an odd satisfaction at the black mark she’d made on the white cotton. _There. I cleaned my face,_ Arya thought with a small smirk. _Won’t Sansa be happy?_

Inspecting the rest of her face, Arya couldn’t help but understand how no one had thought twice about her running around in boys’ clothes all day. With her brown hair cropped above her shoulders, her long face covered in freckles, there was very little of a lady about her. Her mother wouldn’t have been pleased, she thought a little sadly. But her mother was dead, and couldn’t scold her for it now. 

Deciding she looked as decent as she could manage, Arya traipsed down to the ground floor. Rickon was already waiting outside the dining room door, his copper curls out of sight as he peered around it, his back turned to her. 

“What are you doing?” Arya asked her brother in a low voice, as he spun around to face her. 

“I was checking if the lodger was in there,” Rickon told her, ever honest. “But he’s not.” 

Arya couldn’t blame Rickon’s curiosity. She hadn’t met their new lodger either, a Mr Clegane according to Sansa, and she wondered vaguely what he was like. She hoped he wasn’t a bore. _God knows this family doesn’t need any more silent evenings._ It had been years since they’d laughed properly over dinner together, whole and happy with no empty seats at the table. It felt like a lifetime ago to her now. 

Or, worse, what if he was some sort of old lecher? Arya peered into the dining room. Sansa was already sitting at her usual place at the head of the table, talking to Bran beside her. She’d taken to sitting there after Catelyn’s death, to cement her new role as lady of the house, but she always seemed uncomfortable in their mother’s place. She still managed to look pretty, though. Sansa was always pretty. _If this man tries anything with her, I’ll stick my butter knife in his eye._ With that little promise to herself, Arya gave Rickon a nod and headed into the dining room, her brother following close at her heels. 

Six o’clock came and went, and still the Starks sat at the table waiting for their new lodger. Arya tapped her foot against the floor, wondering when Sansa would just give up and let them start eating. Mary hadn’t brought their dinner up from the kitchen yet, but the mere thought of it was making her stomach growl. 

“Arya, stop that tapping,” Sansa told her sharply. Arya obeyed with a roll of her eyes, earning a laugh from Rickon opposite her. 

“Did he say he’d be eating with us?” Bran asked Sansa. He seemed calm, but Arya knew he was just as hungry as she was. 

“I didn’t ask him,” Sansa admitted, looking down at her cutlery. “He came back an hour ago with his things, but I didn’t want to disturb him while he was carrying everything up to his room.” 

Arya’s stomach was aching acutely now. She’d last eaten at breakfast that morning, and her wandering had made her ravenous. The ticking of the grandfather clock was beginning to grate on her nerves. 

“He isn’t coming, Sansa,” she said finally, not bothering to sound patient. “Can we eat now?” 

Her sister looked ready to argue, opening her mouth to say something before closing it again, defeated. 

“I suppose. I’ll go and call for Mary.” She rose out of her chair serenely, walking over to the electric bell on the opposite wall. Arya hated using the bell to call Mary or Hodor, preferred to go and ask for them herself, but as long as she was getting her dinner soon she couldn’t find it within herself to complain. Sansa sat back down, unfolding her napkin with an air of slight disappointment. Arya wasn’t sure why. It didn’t matter to her one bit if their lodger ate with them, despite her curiosity about him. 

Mary arrived, arms laden with a silver platter on which sat a glazed ham, a turrine of fluffy boiled potatoes and sliced green beans, and a gravy boat filled with parsley sauce. Arya breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the food being placed on the table, wondering vaguely how Mary managed to carry it all, before she noticed a shadow fall across the doorway behind them. 

The man, Mr Clegane she assumed, was one of the biggest men she’d ever seen, almost as tall as Hodor, though more muscled. She would be close to saying he was one of the ugliest she’d ever seen, too, as he stepped into the room. His scarred face came into full relief, red and raw-looking. She wondered why Sansa hadn’t mentioned something as obvious as those burns when she’d described their new lodger, but then, Arya supposed, it wouldn’t have been polite. 

“Mr Clegane,” Sansa greeted, getting out of her seat with a polite smile as Mary stepped aside to clear her view across the table. “It’s so kind of you to join us.” 

_Better late than never,_ Arya thought wryly as she glanced over their new lodger. He was dressed neatly, but not expensively, which was good. Men who dressed well were rarely trustworthy, in Arya’s experience. She thought of Joffrey Baratheon and nearly shuddered. 

Sansa had told them he worked in a law office as a clerk, something that Arya couldn’t quite envision him doing. Aside from the scars on the left side of his face, there were faint ones on the part of his neck that was visible, and old mottled bruising on his knuckles now that she looked closely. Being observant was one of few things their governess Miss Mordane had ever praised Arya for, back in Winterfell. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Mr Clegane answered gruffly, looking awkwardly from person to person. Arya kept watching him, though she wasn’t sure why, as his eyes moved over them all. She followed their movements. _Sansa then Rickon then Bran then me then Sansa then Mary then Sansa again…_

“This is the rest of the household,” her sister was explaining, “minus Cook and Hodor, of course. You’ve met Mary before, and myself, but this is my sister Arya and my brothers Bran and Rickon.” 

Mr Clegane nodded at them in turn, looking a little awkward. That didn’t suit him either, Arya mused as he lowered himself into the chair at the other end of the table. Arya took the opportunity to glance around the table, sharing a knowing look with Bran that spoke of their mutual surprise. Rickon was merely looking at the enormous man with open-mouthed fascination. Sansa was pink-cheeked, looking at their guest with a smile as though she were determined to outdo them all with politeness. 

For a few long moments, none of them spoke. Arya could feel her sister’s eyes glancing toward her occasionally, as though she was waiting for her to say something and end the silence, but she kept her mouth rebelliously shut, staring instead at the joint of meat slowly cooling in the middle of the table. 

“Shall… shall I start to carve the ham, Miss Sansa?” Mary asked, clearly wanting to break the awkward pause. Sansa gave Mary a look of covert gratitude, about to accept, when their new lodger suddenly spoke up. 

“I’ll do it,” he rasped. He began to pull the platter toward him, meeting Sansa’s eye as if to ask for permission. “It’s the least I can do, after making you all wait for me.” 

Sansa nodded in response, and the man began carving up the joint of meat. He handled the carving knife with a deftness that Arya hadn’t anticipated, the muscles of his upper arm flexing impressively as he made each slice. She wondered suddenly if he boxed, eyeing his slightly mottled knuckles, the crooked nose that had been broken at least once. _I wonder if he would teach me._

Since her father’s death, Arya had hated the fear she’d felt walking the streets of London, worrying if someone would come for her next. She hated being defenceless, weak. Girls had no use for boxing, Arya knew, but she was hardly usual for her gender. She thought vaguely of what Sansa would think if she asked their lodger to teach her how to punch a man in the face. _She’d likely choke on her potatoes._

Soon their plates were filled, and Arya, Rickon and Bran began to tuck in before Sansa could insist they say grace the way their mother used to. Mary excused herself to the kitchen, likely to relay the events of their awkward dinner to Cook. Mr Clegane seemed hesitant at first, but soon gave in and began eating his ham and potatoes like the rest of them. 

“I hope you had no trouble bringing your things here, Mr Clegane,” Sansa said, cutting her ham into tiny pieces the way Arya had always found frustrating. “After you’d gone, I realised we could have had Hodor help you carry everything.” 

“Hodor’s our friend,” Rickon piped up, stabbing a potato decisively with his fork. “He’s big, bigger even than you. He can carry Bran up and down the steps like a sack of flour.” 

“Rickon,” Bran whispered, not low enough to be discreet. Mr Clegane looked over at Bran, who sat next on Arya’s left. Arya knew what he would notice; the fact that Bran wasn’t sitting on a dining chair like the rest of them, but instead in a wheeled chair pushed up against the table. Thankfully for Bran, he made no comment on it, instead answering Sansa’s initial question. 

“It wasn’t far, so it was fine.” He reached for the gravy boat, pouring parsley sauce over his plate. “This is good food.” 

Arya agreed, wolfing down another piece of ham in a way that made Sansa throw her a sharp glance. 

“I’m glad you think so,” Sansa told him, polite as ever. “I’ll let Cook know you enjoyed.” 

Mr Clegane’s eyes settled on the ham, now stripped of most of its meat in the middle of the table. 

“I’ve never lived anywhere with its own cook,” he said, matter-of-factly. 

“I hope it doesn’t bother you,” Sansa began, but the man shook his large head before she could finish. 

“No. It isn’t a bad thing, just… unusual.” 

Before her sister could make another empty reply, Arya decided she would test what exactly their new lodger was made of. She’d been observing him in silence for a while, but couldn’t make out much more without speaking to him. 

“Well, we’re an unusual family,” she said, mimicking his matter-of-fact tone. She could feel Sansa glaring at her from the other end of the table, but to her surprise, the scarred man merely laughed at her comment. The sound was rough, like steel on stone. 

“That’s true enough.” 

Ignoring her sister’s slightly affronted expression, Arya pressed onward. She disliked small talk. If you wanted to know where you stood with someone, you had to be unfalteringly honest, almost blunt. She’d learned that quickly after leaving Winterfell all those years before. 

“Our parents are dead, did you know that?” Arya said, as though she were talking of the weather. Rickon looked at her with his mouth open again, but she paid him no mind. Sansa was less quiet about her displeasure. 

“Arya,” she began, her tone cautionary, but Arya would not be cowed. 

“We might as well tell him now,” she told her sister bluntly, “before one of the neighbours do.” Arya had heard the whispers that followed her down their street. It was no secret that the Stark children were orphans, barely able to afford the house they lived in, without a friend in the world. “Our eldest brother died as well, nearly a year ago now. We’ve lived alone since then.” 

A long pause followed her speech. She should have felt bad, Arya reasoned, to have blurted out their story to a stranger like that. But her reasoning had been clear. She’d rather tell Mr Clegane the truth about their situation, than let rumour and gossip do the job for her. At least this way she’d get a better idea of the sort of man he was. They’d be living with him for the foreseeable future, after all. 

“I see.” That was all Mr Clegane offered them. He hadn’t looked shocked at her admission, Arya noted; then again, he didn’t seem the sort of man who made his feelings known. To his credit, he didn’t try to offer them any condolences, the same empty platitudes that had frustrated her in the years since her loved ones’ deaths. What use was _sorry_ , when they still had no answers? 

Another silence stretched between them all. Mr Clegane didn’t appear to be feeling particularly awkward, however, which Arya admired. _Perhaps he won’t be so bad to have around the house,_ she thought. He was quiet, but that wasn’t the same thing as being dull. He also didn’t seem like a lecher, even if he did keep glancing over at Sansa a little too often than was strictly polite. Arya didn’t mind. Lots of people stared at Sansa. She was just eye-catching that way. 

As the thought crossed her mind, Sansa got to her feet suddenly, yet another polite smile forced onto her lips as she looked at Mr Clegane. 

“Please forgive me, Mr Clegane, but I’m feeling a little lightheaded,” she said, and Arya knew it was an excuse. “Would you excuse me?” 

The scarred man nodded absently, looking as unconvinced by her lie as Arya was, but his attention soon turned back to the remains of his dinner. Without looking at her family, Sansa left the dining room, closing the door with a resounding snap. Arya knew she had caused her sister to retreat, but she could not feel guilty. If any mention of their parents’ and Robb’s deaths were going to upset her that much, then perhaps it was for the best. 

“Is she always like that?” Mr Clegane said suddenly, drawing Arya’s attention back to the dining room. 

“Like what?” 

The man searched for the word for a few moments. “…Polite.” 

Arya could tell that wasn’t all he wanted to say. She could give him a few more words if he asked. _Uppity. Sensitive. Boring._ The kinder part of her silenced that thought, and she searched for an answer. 

“Yes,” Arya settled on finally. “I hope you’re not expecting me to talk to you like that.” 

Mr Clegane laughed again. “No worries there, girl. One person is enough.” 

He seemed unsure of what to say next. He had finished his meal, had cleared his plate in fact. Arya decided to continue for him. 

“Do you box?” 

He seemed taken aback at the question, for half a moment at least. “Bloody hell, you don’t beat about the bush, do you?” 

Arya shrugged at him. “I don’t see much point in that.” _Life’s too short._ She knew that better than anyone. 

Mr Clegane nodded, more to himself than to her. Some of the discomfort she’d noted in him earlier had begun to fade. He sat back more fully in his chair now, and she realised again just how tall he was. 

“I used to box,” he conceded. “Don’t have much time for matches nowadays, though.” 

Arya frowned a little at that. The bruises she’d seen on his knuckles, though faint, didn’t look much more than a month old. She knew a lot about bruises. She’d accumulated quite the collection of them in her youth. Still, she chose not to press the point. 

“Can you teach me?” She asked instead, and to her surprise he didn’t laugh, only looked at her seriously. Arya could feel Bran staring at her, likely wondering what had gotten into her, but Arya ignored him. 

“To fight?” He seemed to be pondering the idea, silently weighing her up where she sat. Arya knew she was small, and skinny, but she was tougher than she looked. She’d been in fights before and won them. _Not that I told Sansa._ “Not sure your sister would like us boxing in the living room, girl.” 

He hadn’t said no, and Arya held onto that fact like a dog with a bone. “There’s an outhouse in the garden. We could practice behind there, Sansa would never know.” 

The man rubbed a large hand over his face, clearly a little overcome with her sudden eagerness. “I’ll think about it,” was all he said, but it didn’t stop a small smile creeping onto Arya’s face anyway. 

“Teach me too!” Rickon said from the opposite end of the table. Arya had nearly forgotten he was there. She’d have to swear him to silence about her request for Mr Clegane. She could trust Bran to keep her secret, but Rickon was only eleven. 

“I don’t think so, little man,” Mr Clegane told him, rising from the table with a nod to Bran and Arya. “You’ll want to keep your teeth a little while longer, I think.” 

With that, he bade them good night, and left the room. Arya sat there for a while with her brothers, listening to Rickon chatter about the wisdom of Mr Clegane’s advice, seeing as without teeth he’d never be able to eat Cook’s glazed ham. She hoped he would think about teaching her to fight. He seemed an honest man, and she was never wrong about that sort of thing. 

_If I can fight,_ she reasoned silently, _then I’ll be able to kill whoever is behind Father’s death, and Mother’s and Robb’s too._ She had never believed the excuses the police had fed them in the months after their losses, about madmen and vengeful Freys. Sansa had, but Arya knew it was something else. Someone else. 

But first she had to find them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note: the way I've portrayed Arya here is based almost entirely off her younger self. I love her cheekiness and honesty as a young girl, but I wondered what those qualities would be like given the loss of her family members if she wasn't exposed to an assassin's training and remained with her siblings. I think she would become quite distrustful, acerbic, and venegeful, though without the level of unfeelingness we see in the later books/ series. Hence her bluntness in this chapter. I hope I did her character justice.
> 
> Also, apologies if things seem a bit slow, but I wanted to introduce the Starks and their situation sufficiently and explore how things have changed for them. Next chapter will be Sandor's POV, with maybe the introduction of one other character...
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts! Thank you for reading! :)


	4. Chapter Three: ?/Sandor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of violence and mild gore.

Tommy Flowers knew he was as good as dead.

Black dots swam across his vision as he tried to pry his eyes open. He was in a warehouse of some sort, he surmised vaguely from where he sat in the centre of the cavernous room. He was tied to a chair with his hands behind his back. There were crates stacked against the walls, some draped with large cloths. Tommy’s mind flickered irresistibly to funeral shrouds. He wondered whether his captors would at least keep his face recognisable. _For Mum’s sake._

It seemed strange that he was managing to think so clearly. The pain in his head beat like a war drum, thunderous and all-consuming. The blood that had poured from his nose after he’d been punched there was slowly drying. Tommy longed to itch his upper lip. The rope cut deeper into his wrists as his hands twitched behind him.

Not far away, Meryn Trant stood beside a small table. From where he was, and the spinning of his head from the blows that had been rained on it, Tommy couldn’t make out what his jailor was looking at. He only knew Trant’s face from the picture Slynt had shown him before he’d gone out on the Whitechapel job. That seemed a lifetime ago, Tommy thought, though it could only have been a few hours before. Slynt had warned him to be careful. _‘Wandering into the Lannisters’ territory is dangerous enough without your usual cockiness, boy,’_ his superior had said. Tommy had ignored him, as always. He nearly laughed at himself now. _Slynt had the right of it, damn him._

Meryn Trant was walking toward him now, something glinting in his gloved hand. The young man felt his stomach turn, but there was nothing in it to bring up in his terror. 

“Who sent you into Whitechapel?” Trant asked, his sneering face finally coming into focus. Tommy’s eyes flickered between his captor’s face and the weapon in his hand. It was a pair of metal pliers, he realised. Any composure he had felt before vanished like a summer snow. _Not like this,_ he wanted to scream, _please_. He had known the moment he’d been dragged into the warehouse that he would not be leaving it alive. That was how Tywin Lannister’s men did things. But this way would be messy, painful and drawn out.

Tommy’s courage had left him. “Please,” he managed, aloud this time. His mouth felt dry as bone. He watched a flicker of amusement pass over Trant’s face, only for a moment, before the man motioned to someone behind Tommy’s chair.

Before he could even think, Tommy felt someone wrap their arm around his neck, locking it into place, as their hands forced open his mouth. He flailed in panic, the chair scraping along the floor like nails down a chalkboard. It was no use. The pliers were put into his mouth, and he screamed in pain as they closed around one of his back molars. There was a horrible sensation of pressure as Trant tugged the tooth from Tommy’s gums, ignoring the cries of agony that soon turned into splutters as blood dripped down his throat. 

The tooth was thrown aside like a piece of lint. Tommy groaned at the throbbing ache that spread across his face, adding to the cacophony of pain inside his head. It felt like his skull would burst open.

“I’ll ask again,” Trant said, deliberately slowly. His voice sounded far away, like they were under water. _Perhaps I’m already dead,_ Tommy thought suddenly, amid the pain, _and this is what Hell is like. “Someone told you to come to Whitechapel and try to bargain with the Lannisters’ customers. I want to know exactly who it was.”_

__

Tommy was silent for a few moments, his head still caught in the unknown assailant’s vicelike grip. _They’ll kill me either way,_ he thought to himself. _Might as well go with some teeth still in my head._

He did not anticipate the sound of a door opening, somewhere in the shadows behind Trant’s head. His captor seemed surprised, too, for he turned around, pliers glinting from the low-hanging lights above.

“Who’s there?” Trant called out. The newcomer didn’t reply, but Tommy could faintly hear their footsteps over the buzzing in his ears. They must have gotten close enough for Trant to see their face, for he laughed.

“Didn’t expect to see your ugly mug here today, Clegane. Thought you’d be too busy playing house with the Stark brats.”

_Clegane_. Tommy’s stomach gave another lurch of fear. The man they called the Hound had been the one man Slynt had told him to look out for above all others. Huge, scarred and vicious, he protected the Whitechapel interest for his masters as well as any Rottweiler. Anyone who crossed the Lannisters in that end of town had Clegane to contend with, so no one usually dared try. The Hound had been gone from the east end for a few weeks, however, something that Slynt had used to his advantage. That was why Tommy had been sent into Whitechapel, unsuspecting that other Lannister henchmen would be waiting for him there.

“We found _this_ one lurking around your usual haunt this morning,” Trant was explaining, as the footsteps got closer. Tommy’s heart began to pound harder in his chest, as though it would take flight if it could. He’d heard stories about the Hound, and even more about his elder brother. Enough stories to make him wish Trant would hurry up and kill him already. 

“Is that so?” The Hound’s voice was gruff, raspy and low. He stepped slightly to the side, now, and Tommy could make out his face. Half in shadow, only the burnt side was visible. The hideous scarring was nowhere near as terrifying as the cold expression in Clegane’s eye, one that said he felt nothing at all as he beheld the Lannisters’ prisoner. That seemed somehow worse than the sadistic glint in Trant’s eyes as he glanced between Tommy and the Hound, a grin etched onto his face.

“This is Tommy Flowers,” Trant continued. “He’s been threatening some of Tywin’s customers. Trying to start a protection racket, by all accounts. Extortion. _Shameful_.”

The note of sarcasm was hard to miss, even in Tommy’s pain-muddled state. The Lannisters themselves ran the largest protection racket in the East End, and everyone who didn’t have their heads stuck in the sand knew it. Theirs was an extortion business that rivalled them all. Old Tywin had his claws in all the major cities, and no one dared defy him, not even Janos Slynt. That was, until they’d heard the Hound had fucked off to god-knows-where, leaving Whitechapel open for the taking. 

Now the Hound was back, and watching Tommy as though he were a part of the wall. “And you’re pulling teeth because...?”

Trant’s smile widened. “Because Tywin wants to know who his competition is for the Whitechapel interest, even if it’s just some small-time rat. Small-time rats are easy to crush. We just need a name.”

Trant stepped toward him again, holding up the pliers. Whoever had Tommy’s head in an arm lock dutifully pried his jaws open again, and he struggled feebly against them. He could feel blood running down his hands now, his wrists burning from the rope. 

“Slynt!” He managed, though with his mouth being held open it merely sounded like _‘shliiih’_. His mouth was released, and Tommy repeated himself, eyes wide with panic. “It was Slynt! Slynt told me to go to Whitechapel and threaten Tywin Lannister’s customers.”

The truth fell from his lips like a plea. His head was spinning so badly, he could barely keep his eyes open without feeling nauseous. Tommy hadn’t planned on talking; that had been before Trant started pulling his teeth from his mouth, and before the Hound had walked into the warehouse. Perhaps now that he had told them, they wouldn’t throw him to the Lannister dog. It would be a small mercy.

“Janos Slynt?” The Hound said, his arms folded over his chest. “The police chief?”

“Yes,” Tommy answered, his words slightly slurred from the terrible ache in his jaw. “He said if I managed to get some of Tywin’s customers paying me for protection instead, we’d split the profits and he’d make sure the local force would stay off my back.”

Trant’s smile had vanished from his face. “Slynt’s meant to be on our payroll,” he said, turning to the Hound. “We’ll need to let Tywin know about this.”

“I’ll go,” the Hound said, “but I need to tell you what I came here for first. Tywin’s putting together a few men to go and find the Westerling girl, and he’s asked for you and Blount specifically.”

Trant’s eyes narrowed at that. “Do we even know where she is?”

“He has people looking into it. Pinkertons, apparently, from America.”

Trant scoffed. “Well, if the Old Lion wants me to go, I’ll go. You tell him that before you run on home to your new Stark masters.”

_Starks, Westerlings. Pinkertons and lions._ Tommy no longer understood what was being spoken of. He was too terrified to pay much attention to it, however. His heart was hammering against his ribs, as though it was trying to make up for the fact that it would soon cease to beat at all. It couldn’t be long now, he surmised, before the Lannister henchmen got rid of him. The question was, would they make it quick or not?

The Hound nodded once, tersely, before turning to leave. Trant’s voice made him pause.

“Give my love to Miss Sansa,” Trant called to the enormous man, voice dripping with sarcasm. “We never talked, back when she used to go for walks in the park with Joff, but what I thought about doing to her never really involved much talking.”

The man restraining Tommy’s head gave a rough laugh. The Hound said nothing at all, merely stood where he was. Trant watched him for a moment, suddenly cautious, but Clegane made no move. Shrugging, Trant turned back to where Tommy sat struggling.

“Now that we’ve got all we needed out of _you_ ,” he began, that same awful smile quirking back onto his face, “I think I’ll be letting you go.”

Tommy’s heart leapt in his chest. Were they truly going to let him go? He couldn’t believe it-

“Once I’ve used you for target practice, of course,” Trant continued. “My knife-throwing skills aren’t quite what they used to be, so I’ll need a few tries.”

Whatever small hope had kindled in Tommy’s mind came crashing down. Fear rose in its place, acrid on his tongue. “Please,” he begged, to no one in particular. He had not imagined, when he had woken that morning, that it would be his last. _I should have said goodbye,_ he thought, picturing his mother’s worn face as Trant picked something else up from the table. “Please don’t.”

The arm was gone suddenly from around his neck. He could hear whoever had restrained him walking away. In his panic, Tommy hadn’t seen Trant move again until something was flying at him, a flash of silver in the dim light of the warehouse. It was only when the blade sunk into his abdomen that he found the sense to scream.

“Jesus,” he heard someone swear from far away. In the blinding pain emanating from his stomach, Tommy could barely register the gruff man’s words. The knife was still in his stomach. His brain was screaming at him, louder than the sounds emanating from his mouth, louder than Trant’s low laughter. _Get it out,_ his brain shouted at him, or perhaps _he_ shouted it. It didn’t matter, as long as that blade was sticking out of him he couldn’t think of anything else-

_Bang_. Something echoed from the shadows, where the Hound stood. Tommy slumped forward in his chair, the world turning to black all around him.

* * *

**Sandor**

He couldn’t remember how he got back to Doughty Street, but somehow he was sitting at the dinner table, a plate of roast pork and mashed potatoes sitting in front of him. 

“How was your day, Mr Clegane?” Sansa Stark was asking him, an empty little smile schooled onto her face. He had no patience for it tonight.

_Today I shot a man in the head,_ he wanted to tell her. True, it was to spare him being turned into a human dartboard by Meryn fucking Trant, but he doubted that would matter much to Miss Stark. She was watching him with those wide blue eyes, unsuspecting of the danger that sat at her dinner table. _And he wasn’t the first, either._

“It was fine,” he answered instead, his voice gruffer than he’d intended. “Clerical work isn’t particularly interesting.”

Miss Sansa nodded, as though she too knew the boredom of the mundane tasks of his fake job at a fake law firm. “Ah. Well, I hope you are enjoying the dinner.”

Sandor realised he hadn’t yet taken a bite of the meal laid out in front of him. He should, perhaps, have had no appetite after putting a bullet through Tommy Flowers’ brain, but his stomach had never cared much for decorum before. It growled as the smell of pork rose toward him, and he picked up his knife and fork, eager to make quick work of it. That way, he could disappear up to his room, away from Miss Sansa’s insipid questioning and her sister’s curious glances. 

“How was your day, Arya?” He heard Sansa inquire, her voice a little frosty. Sandor wolfed down another forkful of mashed potato for good measure. _I don’t want to be here if an argument breaks out._ It had been little more than a week since he’d moved into the Stark house, and he’d quickly understood that the sisters were like chalk and cheese. Arya was mercifully less polite than her sister, and keen to remind him of his promise to consider teaching her how to box. _Bugger me, what am I, some sort of schoolteacher?_ The two boys were easy enough to live with. The eldest, Bran, was quiet in a thoughtful way, while Rickon was nearly as wild as Arya.

In truth, it was only Sansa that exasperated Sandor. She was polite to the point of never having anything meaningful to say, and he knew that she was still afraid of him, try as she might to keep looking at his scars. But she had so far proved the easiest to ply information out of. Already, he’d learned where she kept her important papers (unlocked in a drawer in the sitting room, and some, like the tenancy contract, in her bedroom); he knew when the house was completely empty (Sunday mornings, when she dragged her siblings to church and for a walk around the park with Hodor in tow, and when Cook and Mary went to visit family). He also knew that the Starks had eaten into quite a lot of their mother’s inheritance, for he’d heard her asking Mary to cut down the size and costliness of their dinners. 

Tywin had seemed pleased to hear of that, for some reason that Sandor wasn’t privy to. _Not that it matters,_ he reminded himself. It wasn’t his place to know everything, only to tell Tywin anything he could glean from living in close proximity to the orphaned Starks.

Dinner passed with relative ease. Arya and Sansa avoided snapping at each other, for which Sandor was grateful; the last thing he needed on top of the headache building behind his eyes was two girls arguing. Rickon had managed to make only one impolitely honest comment over the meal, which was to ask Sandor ‘how he got burns all down his face’. Sansa had looked mortified, Bran had chided his brother, but Sandor had barked a laugh. He had no plans on telling the boy _that_ particular story, but he admired his honest questioning regardless.

He was about to head up to his room for the night when he felt someone’s hand on his arm as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He turned to see Sansa looking up at him, a nervous little smile curling the edges of her mouth. 

“Mr Clegane, may I speak with you for a moment?”

Sandor stared down at her for a few long moments, wondering what she could want to question him about. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if she knew he was spying on them. _Not a chance,_ his mind interrupted. _She’s too trusting for that._

Arya and Rickon passed them on their way upstairs, the former throwing her sister a curious glance before disappearing onto the upper landing. Bran, presumably, slept on the ground floor, for he wheeled himself down the hallway and into a room at the back of the house. Soon they were alone, and he found himself waiting for her to speak. Her eyes were a strange colour blue, he thought vaguely, watching them flicker across his face for a heartbeat.

“I wanted to apologise,” she began, “for Rickon’s behaviour earlier. He shouldn’t have blurted out something like that, it was terribly insensitive and impolite. He’s too old for such behaviour. I’ll speak with him about it later.”

Sandor heard himself snort at that. “Wasn’t impolite. It was honest. I don’t mind.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “You don’t?”

“No.” He suddenly felt very tired. It had been a long day of sneaking around London like a spider, making sure he wasn’t seen heading directly to the Lannisters’ office from Doughty Street in case anyone should care to follow him. So far, he knew the Starks held no suspicions of him, but he was not fool enough to take chances. Sandor rubbed his chin. He was tired, and he was beginning to grow angry at this girl’s constant chirping. “What I do mind is people pretending they can’t see my face when I know damn well they can.”

Miss Sansa seemed taken aback at that, her mouth falling open a little. Then she composed herself again, pink-cheeked. “Mr-“

“None of that,” he cautioned her. There was something about catching her off guard that appealed to Sandor, strangely, but it was offset by the anger that her constant attempts at politeness inspired. “Do you think I haven’t noticed you flinching at the sight of me all week? Peeping at me across the table when you think I won’t notice? Well, I’m here in front of you now, girl. Take a good long look. You know you want to.”

Sandor knew that it probably wasn’t a good idea to intimidate his landlady, or call her ‘girl’, but she was wearing his patience thin. _Damn Tywin and his bloody plans._ It took a few moments for Sansa Stark to answer him. She seemed nervous, still, and she couldn’t meet his eyes. Her gaze had fallen to her feet. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” she managed quietly.

“Still can’t look at me, eh?” He asked her, lowering his own voice as he stared down at the top of her coppery head. _You always did have a talent for scaring pretty girls, dog,_ his mind quipped. He couldn’t feel guilty for it. If anyone needed to learn that the world was not all manners and niceties, it was the young woman standing in front of him. 

To his surprise, she lifted her head to look at him. A spark of defiance flashed across her face, then, and he almost smiled at her. _Almost._ It was gone in a moment. 

“I should go to bed,” she said, finding her voice again. Her eyes met his for one long moment, as though she was trying to prove to herself that she could do it. _Take a good long look,_ he told her silently, though he wasn’t sure why. Then her gaze slipped away, looking past him toward the stairs. “Good night.”

She passed him without another word, and he heard her tread up the stairs, softly as a dancer. Sandor was left in the hallway of the house, waiting for her to reach her room before he headed to his own, wondering why he felt a little disappointed that she had gone.

* * *

He almost dreaded walking down to breakfast the next morning. A fitful night’s rest, plagued with recollections of the man he had shot, had given Sandor enough time to regret his words to Sansa the previous evening. Decorum meant little and less to him, but being outright rude toward his landlady could put him at risk of being evicted from Doughty Street in disgrace. 

Determined not to do anything further to endanger the job Tywin had given him, Sandor hauled himself out of bed, dressing with a speed that had often surprised others. Given his size, people expected him to be slow, both physically and mentally. The Hound soon disabused them of that notion. But here, in the Stark house, he was only Sandor Clegane. The Hound didn’t exist, and he needed to stop barking at Sansa Stark no matter how much she frustrated him.

Washed and clothed, Sandor descended to the dining room as he had every morning for the past few days. As usual, breakfast had been laid out diligently by Mary. Plates of eggs and bacon were being set upon by Arya and Rickon as he entered. Bran was reading a book, a slice of toast in his free hand as his eyes scanned the page. Sansa sat in front of the window, the morning sunlight turning her hair fiery as she looked up at him. For once, she was wordless. 

Ignoring the knot that formed in his stomach at her lack of greeting, Sandor settled himself into the opposite seat and reached for the bacon. Arya offered him a good morning, seemingly to make up for her sister’s sudden muteness. Sandor’s answer to her, and to Rickon’s usual litany of questions, felt mechanical as he filled his stomach. He wasn’t sure why, but Sansa’s silence set him on edge more than he cared to admit.

Once the food had been cleared, Arya was the first to leave, most likely to disappear off into the city as Sandor had learned she enjoyed to do. Rickon and Bran were still of school age, but according to the former their sister had decided a tutor would be sufficient until they could be sent back to school. _‘Harrow or Eton Mess,’_ Rickon had told him during breakfast the previous morning. _‘Sansa says they’re the best, so we’re to go there once we get our money.’_

Sandor wondered vaguely if Sansa knew exactly how much her little brother had been telling him of their financial situation as Rickon trudged off upstairs to get ready for his lessons. The eldest Stark looked ready to fly off back to her room as well, and Sandor was surprised to hear himself call out to her.

“Can I speak to you for a moment, please, Miss Sansa?”

She looked as taken aback by his question as Sandor was, but she nodded absently at him, settling back in her seat. Bran, thankfully more tactful than either Arya or Rickon, took his leave, wheeling himself out of the dining room and leaving his sister and Sandor alone.

_Now what?_ Sandor’s mind hissed at him. He knew he would soon need to leave the house on the pretence of going to work, but he reasoned he had enough time for a short exchange with Miss Stark to smooth out the feathers he had ruffled the night before.

“I wanted to apologise,” he began, nearly cringing at how awkward he sounded in his own ears. “For the way I spoke to you. It was rude.”

Sansa Stark said nothing for a few moments, seemingly watching his face as though trying to determine if he was lying. When she found no trace of deceit, she answered him. 

“It was,” she agreed softly. “But I thank you for apologising.”

She offered him a small smile, and Sandor realised with a jolt that it was the first natural one she had given him. He found himself returning it, though he knew it was nowhere near as pleasant. He could feel his ruined cheek twitching at the effort, and guessed how hideous he must look in the harsh morning light streaming through the windows. But if Sansa noticed, she made no sign of it.

_Say something else,_ his mind urged, unused as it was to pretty girls smiling at him. Before he could do so much as clear his throat, however, the door opened behind him.

“Miss Sansa,” Mary began, in her usual breathless voice. She seemed to notice Sandor then, for she gasped. “Oh, I’m sorry-“

“What’s wrong, Mary?” Sansa asked sweetly, looking past him to where the maid hovered in the hallway. Sandor felt himself grow almost cold at the lack of her eyes on him, and he felt his mood swiftly returning to its usual sour spirits.

“A letter just came for you, Miss.” Mary hurried into the room, handing Sansa the envelope with a few nervous glances in Sandor’s direction. The maid was intimidated by him, Sandor knew. _She wouldn’t be the first._

“I’d better head to work,” Sandor began, rising from his seat. Sansa nodded vaguely, ripping open the letter after scanning the writing on its front for a few long moments. He decided to take his leave, thinking bitterly of the day of work that lay ahead. Sandor wondered whether Tywin would send him out on more errands. It might have been cushier work than he was used to, but a man had still ended up dead yesterday.

Sansa’s gasp of surprise made Sandor turn his head before he could cross the threshold. She was reading the contents of the letter with a beaming smile, and Sandor felt his stomach twist. _Is it news about the inheritance?_ Tywin had ordered him to report any such information immediately. The idea of having to relay information about his hosts once again brought a bitter taste to Sandor’s mouth, even as he forced himself to step out into the hall. There he waited just beyond the doorway, listening to the conversation between Sansa and Mary and hating himself for it.

“What is it, Miss?”

Sansa was breathless with delight as she answered the maid. “It’s from _him_ , Mary. After all this time! I thought…” She paused for a moment, something sad creeping into her voice. _Who is ‘him’?_ Sandor wondered, hoping it was someone Tywin needed to know about. “But he’s asked to call on me tomorrow.”

_Maybe Tywin will let me kill this man myself,_ Sandor thought suddenly, before he could stop himself. He immediately cursed himself. _What’s wrong with you, dog?_ He held his breath as he waited to find out exactly who Sansa was talking about.

Thankfully, Mary unknowingly obliged him. “ _Who_ is it, Miss?”

The name that Sansa spoke sent Sandor’s hopes falling like a bird shot from the sky.

“Joffrey Baratheon,” Sansa answered joyfully, and Sandor could almost see the smile on her face. _Joffrey fucking Baratheon._

_This can’t be good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lack of recent updates. On top of uni deadlines I've been unwell for the last few days so my progress has been slow. Hopefully though the story should start to pick up pace from here on in!
> 
> I was planning on introducing some other characters in this chapter but felt it would be better to devote a whole chapter to doing that, so be prepared for Jaime's POV in the next update! Braime is coming ;)
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts, I love reading constructive comments! Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi,
> 
> It's been a while (several years, to be exact) since I last attempted to write fanfiction. I've been itching to get back to writing some SanSan stuff, since I love the pairing so much, and I hope I managed to capture at least a few readers' attention with this. Please let me know your thoughts in the comments, I'd love to hear what you think (but please be constructive, it's been a while and I may be rusty!).
> 
> Updates on this may be sporadic, due to commitments like studying for my finals and completing coursework, so please do bear with me. I'm hoping to add more characters, pairings and storylines to this, in particular Brienne x Jaime (because they're just adorable, sue me) and Arya x Gendry.


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